


Death is Just Like Danger. Danger is Loving You.

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:20:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic





	Death is Just Like Danger. Danger is Loving You.

It’s dark and there are stars. It’s slow like moving through molasses. The warm breeze licks along his spine sending minute shivers through his body. John looks up at him with eyes full of affection and heartbreak and something that he will not name. His hands shake as he hurries to slide off his gloves. He cannot bear another moment without his hands touching John’s skin.

His fingers stroke over peaks and valleys, the endless topography of a face he has traced a million times in his mind. His left hand slides down against the column of John’s throat. His pulse thrums erratically against Sherlock’s fingers. John shivers and his eyes flutter shut.

Sherlock’s hands slip quickly down to the buttons separating him from John. He pushes, pries, rips. The shirt is utterly irrelevant. All he can see is miles of tan skin stretched tightly over strong muscles. Delicate blond hairs that ripple gently in the breeze. Two pink peaks rise amidst dusky skin in response to the unexpected kiss of night air.

Sherlock’s right hand rests over John’s heart. His lips meet John’s.  Once. Twice. Three times. The humidity of Sherlock’s mouth warms John’s dry chapped lips. His hands continue their exploration, skating over ribs, pressing insistently along his sternum, lingering over his left pectoral.

Sherlock’s eyes flick over John’s beautiful face. His hair flutters in the breeze above his stern brow. The weight of years has lifted in the smooth, unworried skin around his eyes, the slack carefree set of his mouth. 

Sherlock’s right hand teases along John’s knee and slides slowly up his thigh. Slips along his groin to cup John’s flat, sharp hipbone. Sherlock is surprised by the warm, thick moisture covering his hand. Lubricating the slick slide of his skin along John’s. His mouth meets John’s. Once. Twice. Three times. 

John is still. So still beneath him and Sherlock can hear the high hiss of breath punching out of his own lungs. 

He pauses. 

Breaks the moment of total devotion to the man who is his world as he raises his right hand to eye level.

He should be shocked at the blood. He isn’t. Somewhere he knows what happened. What is happening now. Sometime earlier there was a frantic phone call to emergency services and John’s voice reassuring him while John’s body sank limply to the ground.

The wail of sirens cuts through the quiet sanctity of them suspended in this moment. The world tilts and Sherlock spins. Life clicks back into motion at full speed. Without the softening shroud of shock, it seems almost double time now.

There are several men. Mouths moving, lifted eyebrows - questions? Yes. They are asking questions. Before Sherlock can answer. They are gone. Moving forward. Crouching over John.

Sherlock feels his mouth move, knows he is speaking quite quickly but he can’t hear it over the roar in his ears. Rushing water crashing over rocks and screaming toward the falls. The Fall. No. The harsh percussion of his own heartbeat. The roar of blood rushing to his head. He should lie down. He can’t leave John. Turning to face the medics, Sherlock can see John has already been loaded onto a stretcher. Reach out. Take his hand. Squeeze. Reassurance. Not Alone. John is not alone. Never alone.

Futility. Sherlock cannot move.

As the stretcher rolls away, he is the one left alone, huddled over empty pavement next to a blue scarf dyed-purple with the crimson contribution of John’s veins. A scarf that Sherlock had ripped from his own neck and painstakingly, gently, lovingly pillowed beneath John’s head.

Sherlock lets go. John is being cared for now. He spirals. This is how he imagined loving John. Slow, soft touches in the moonlight. Gentle drags of fingertips and urgent greedy mouths pressed against one another in silent supplication. Bodies pleading with one another - closer, tighter, harder. Whispered benedictions, blasphemies. _Oh God._

**_Please God_  -** 

_Let him live._


End file.
